


Keeping His Composure

by rain_sleet_snow



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/M, M/M, Roger is a really horrible person, Trauma, rated for topic not explicitness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:52:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger tries to best Wyldon. It doesn't quite work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping His Composure

**Author's Note:**

> Kat encouraged me to write this. I still don't know if it was a good idea or not, and I don't think I ever will.

_That man_ is watching him, _again_. Wyldon is going to do something truly, truly dire, and it will probably qualify as lèse-majesté, and he’ll be burnt on Traitor’s Hill and never get to marry Vivenne with her clever smile, nut-brown hair and endless capacity for completely bewildering him. He can’t predict a single damn thing she does, and that includes saying “absolutely, if you’ll propose to me properly” after he’d asked her to marry him (and in hindsight, he can admit that discussing it in such stiff, business-like terms hadn’t exactly been the action of a lover, but he’d been so appallingly nervous it was probably justifiable. Vivenne didn’t see it quite that way.)

He loses himself in pleasant dreams of Vivenne as he leaves the tiltyard, Fury’s reins held loosely in one hand, his helmet tucked under one arm, and heads for the stables. This means he doesn’t have to look at the man, and can pretend not to have noticed the knowing eyes boring into his shoulder blades, and sometimes – but surely he’s imagining now – drifting downwards, examining a rear end hidden by tunic and breeches and loincloth. One of his sisters once said, giggling, that a particular young nobleman undressed her with his eyes every time he saw her, and Wyldon gets the uncomfortable feeling that he now knows exactly what she meant.

So it helps, to be able to mislay most of his higher brain function in daydreams of his beloved; it makes it easier not to blush, not to stare in mixed horror and humiliation. It doesn’t help even a little bit when he looks up from removing Fury’s tack and suddenly realises that Roger of Conté is there, leaning on the stall door, and _watching_ him. And _smirking_.

Wyldon hates him so very, very much, but he’s really good at not showing what he thinks so he merely bows and says neutrally: “Your Grace. To what do I owe the honour?”

That smirk. Wyldon would like to punch it off his face, to watch the dark bruises bloom under clean, pale skin, painting across cheekbones, into the close-cropped beard; to see blood crack scarlet on full, amused lips, pour from a straight, strong nose. He’d like to see if the Duke still finds this so funny then.

Mithros damn it, Wyldon has never liked Roger; the man’s much too polished, much too hard to get a grip on- but fantasising about smashing his face in is not reasonable. Wyldon controls himself.

Roger shrugs and smiles. “Oh, nothing in particular, Sir Wyldon, I was just... interested.”

 _In what?_ Wyldon wonders suspiciously. He does not allow the question to creep onto his face as he says blandly: “Indeed, your Grace?”

“They tell me you’re the best,” Rogers informs him, and maybe Wyldon’s imagining the tiny, suggestive pause. 

“Really, your Grace?” 

A smirk curls the full lips, and the Duke nods. “Really. In fact, they tell me you’re the best at everything.”

He can’t help but be a little flattered. “I... wouldn’t presume. Your Grace.”

“I know,” Roger says plaintively, and it takes all of Wyldon’s iron self-control not to jump out of his skin, not to let his mind run on with a thousand interpretations of those words, each more alarming than the next. “You won’t presume at all.” His voice lowers. “Really, Wyldon; what more do you want? A signpost?”

Roger still hasn’t said it, and Wyldon takes comfort in the faint possibility that he might be wrong, that the Duke of Conté isn’t confessing an attraction to him, except that he knows he’s right.

He finds himself taking one step towards Roger, then another, and almost panics because his feet are moving against his will. He exerts pressure, tries to force his muscles and tendons into tensed stillness, but they flex, his knees bend; one foot after another, step, step, step, and there he is, standing directly before Roger with an inch of air and a stall door between them. He can hear Roger’s breathing, see the smirk transfer to his eyes, silent, gloating blue eyes with a tell-tale glitter of orange in the depths; Roger is using the Gift on him and hasn’t even the decency to hide it from unGifted eyes.

“I- am- betrothed,” he forces through lips that are suddenly too thick and a tongue that is suddenly too clumsy.

Roger nods, contemplatively. “I know.” And then he smiles, brilliantly, and a cold shiver seats itself in the base of Wyldon’s spine. “And if you want it to stay that way, you’ll do what I tell you to.”

He cannot be threatening Vivenne. He _cannot_.

But he is.

Wyldon’s fists clench tight, knuckles white with the pressure, and his teeth bare, but he can barely move, and in any case, what would he do? He could sweep up the sword lying close to his hand, or reach out and let his fingers close on the Duke’s throat, but how would he explain that? What would he say, when he was found with his hands around a royal duke’s neck? ‘The Duke of Conté made indecent proposals to me and threatened my betrothed if I didn’t comply’- yes, because that’s so very believable.

He does not know what to do, there is nothing he can do, but it is lucky for the Duke that the spell means he can move only inches, or Roger of Conté would be lying dead on the floor. And, curse him - the man knows it, and laughs, soft and low and triumphant.

“You see my point.”

Wyldon nods stiffly, as far as the spell will let him, and in his mind calls Roger of Conté every bad name there is.

Roger reaches up casually and touches Wyldon’s cheek, stroking his fingers down the skin reddened by the vicious November wind outside and embarrassment; he examines Wyldon’s face with interest as the younger man slowly turns almost purple with suppressed rage, horror and mortification. He wipes a thumb across Wyldon’s lips, and it would be teasing if Wyldon wasn’t reeling with pure revulsion.

 _Vivenne, Vivenne,_ Wyldon thinks despairingly to himself, and abruptly cuts off his wish to see her now, for her to glare at Roger and lay her hand on his arm, both comfort and claiming- because that would mean she sees this, and he does not want her to think of him as weak.

“My chambers,” Roger says, “six bells after noon,” and he turns and leaves.

Wyldon can move now, but all he does is shake with fear and useless anger. All the practice at keeping his face blank, unmoving, forcing himself to consider matters rationally, cannot help him now.

***

It is almost midnight when Wyldon slips down to the stables, white-faced, tight-lipped, and carrying supplies for three days. It takes him far less time to saddle Fury, swing himself onto her back –not without a wince for his new bruises- and clatter out of the palace than it did to write the brief, curt note in his chambers announcing a hunting trip.

He rides deep into the Royal Forest, and makes camp as dawn is breaking; finally, he sleeps.

In the afternoon he gets up and continues to ride; in a small town he finds himself defending the honour of a frightened girl of no more than thirteen, and returning her safely to her parents. Her name is Lillie and she thanks him for his kindness with a shy smile, but he thinks that he should be thanking her; the bruises now forming, the split in his eyebrow, will provide excellent cover for the others.

On the second day it begins to snow heavily. He concedes defeat and turns back, riding hard for the palace.

He arrives at dawn on the third day, to a bombardment of anxiety and questions, which he answers with perfect calm. He settles Fury, leaves his belongings in his room, and then goes to Duke Baird to get himself tidied up so that he neither catches a fever nor alarms Vivenne on account of looking like he’s been through a housewife’s mangle, wrung out and weakened.

He remains utterly composed the whole time, but Duke Baird is not fooled. The careful examination, which Wyldon has to steel himself to go through with, application of bruise balm, and quiet healing of the split eyebrow, the chipped cheekbone, the worst of the bruises, all this is accomplished in discreet peace. The healer says nothing, and Wyldon allows himself to relax a little as the warmth of the healing fills him, makes him drowsy and hungry.

Just before he goes, Duke Bair finally speaks. He has his back to Wyldon, tidying his medicines. “Tell her.”

He stops. “What?” His voice is harsher than it means it to be.

“Your betrothed. She will want to comfort you. Let her. Don’t cut yourself off.”

Wyldon is silent.

“You are not the first,” Duke Baird says gently, turning to him, and there is sympathy in the green eyes. “You will not be the last. I see Alex of Tirragen in here all the time.”

That shocks him, and his jaw drops. “His own-“

“Yes,” Duke Baird cuts him off. “Yes.” He looks older than he really is, now; old and tired. “If I had even a jot of proof... But there’s nothing I can do.” 

_Nothing I can do._ Wyldon remembers, with a sharp feeling like teeth sinking into his heart, when he said that to himself. NothingIcandonothingIcandonothingIcando, a never-ending mantra of lost control.

He nods jerkily, and leaves.

***

Wyldon does not tell Vivenne, but he does go to her, and when she sees how distressed he is (because she can always read him, no matter what he does; and if that’s not disconcerting he doesn’t know what is) she sends her chaperone away, into the next room.

“Five minutes, Renée,” she hisses at the protesting woman, “five minutes - I promise you, nothing untoward will happen-“ and she helps matters along with a sizeable shove in the small of the back.

“I am sure that is improper,” Wyldon says stiffly.

Vivenne purses her lips. “Improper be damned to Chaos, Wyl. What has happened?”

He can only shake his head and sit down hard on one of the dainty little sofas, his head in his hands as tears prick his eyes, and he hears the rustle of her dress as she comes to him and sits down beside him.

“Was it so bad?” she whispers, and he nods inarticulately, the tears now sliding down his cheeks, hot on cold skin. 

She takes out her handkerchief and wipes them away, then cradles his head against her shoulder, running her fingers through the thick brown hair as he cries, murmuring assurances to him: you are safe, Wyl, it’s all right, I’m here, I’m here, I promise, you’re safe. 

The next time he encounters Duke Roger of Conté, they are at a ball, and Vivenne stands next to him with her delicate hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, claiming and challenging and comforting. 

Duke Roger tries to catch his eye, and instead he gets Vivenne’s; and for just a moment, he hesitates, for just a moment, he is daunted, until he remembers that Vivenne is only a noble girl like any other- but that brief moment gives Wyldon the courage to keep his composure, to remain blank and stern and neutral in the face of sudden paralysing fear.

“I am never going to like him,” Vivenne murmurs through her smile as they take to the floor for the next dance.

Wyldon spins her round, lays a hand on her waist and dares to kiss her cheek quickly – he can see Renée glaring, scandalised, and for once completely fails to care. “You don’t have to.”

And when Alan (Alanna?) of Trebond kills Duke Roger, he spares a moment in amongst the outrage to raise a toast to Alan-Alanna - and to spit on Duke Roger’s grave.

Because which of them is the best now, you bastard?


End file.
